


this ain't no headtrip— this is a collision on the road

by mayor_crumblepot



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blood and Violence, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Pining, Pining Oswald, but one thats full of story, lots of abstractions, lots of semicolons, oswald ruminates on how much he loves ed and it hurts a lot, there's a special quote in here too, this fic is abstract as hell but it's trying, this may count as a character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 14:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13056102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayor_crumblepot/pseuds/mayor_crumblepot
Summary: After Ed snaps at him in a warehouse with a hostage, Oswald heavily considers why he doesn't simply just murder Ed. The reality of it all hurts a lot, and Oswald considers his options. (Set during the time Oswald spends as mayor, pre-Isabella.)





	this ain't no headtrip— this is a collision on the road

**Author's Note:**

> _ but there's nothing more sadistic _   
>  _ than an infant _   
>  _ waving his pistol in my face _   
>  _ he wants me right down on my knees _   
>  _ crumbling in disgrace _
> 
>  
> 
> [ trigger happy jack - poe ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PmvmFKX3Rks)

They'd blocked out five hours for torturing the hostages, however many they ended up with. After the five hours, it would be determined if the information they gave up was worth sparing their lives for. (Oswald was certain that nothing they said would be worth their lives, but he liked to think that perhaps, he may be wrong.)

It had all started going wrong when one of the hostages died in the car. The man took hold of his pocket knife and jammed it into his own throat, carving out veins and arteries and tendons, staining the back seat  _and_ the other hostage. While it was a setback, the spectacle gave Oswald and Ed both high hopes; whatever these men knew, one was willing to die to keep himself from sharing it. That was good. 

Things did not go uphill as the evening went on, however. 

Even as the hours drag on, the hostage keeps quiet save for his desperate pleas and rough screaming. 

"We're wasting our time," Oswald says, for what must be the fourth time in the past hour alone, "we should just kill him and get out of here."

"What's your rush?" The sound of Ed's voice is muffled by the man he's currently removing fingernails from, yanking one so hard that the pull sends him stumbling. 

"It's  _cold_."

Ed tosses his jacket at Oswald, seemingly unaware of the smattering of blood that covers the front. So much for keeping their clothes clean. Despite his annoyance, Oswald pulls the jacket over his shoulders and settles into it comfortably. It's life's little pleasures that make it all worthwhile. 

When Oswald comes back from making a phone call, he finds Ed with a knife to the hostage's face, carving dangerously close to his eye. Just the sight makes Oswald's stomach flip, never having been one for intricate cuts— the way the skin flexes and splits makes him feel sick. 

"We need to leave," hanging back, Oswald raises his voice just a bit, "this was a waste of time. Victor found the hideout; it's been handled." When he goes to put his phone back into his pocket, Oswald comes into contact with dried blood from Ed's jacket, "We need to clean up, and— oh, god, the car, too—"

"Would you  _shut_ up?" Ed wheels around from the hostage, harshly cutting the side of his neck on the way. "Nag, nag, nag,  _nag_ ," he advances on Oswald with the knife in hand, but doesn't go so far as to lunge with it, "do you ever stop?"

"Friend, I—" With hands up in a surrender, Oswald becomes keenly aware of how silly he must look, expression fractured in fear. If anyone were to kill him, it would probably be Ed. He has a feeling. "Now, put that down, Ed. We can talk this over, and—"

"That's all you've been doing," he says, practically hisses as he steps in closer, "talking, talking, talking. Do you think I'm a moron?"

Oswald knows this is a loaded question. He knows that it can't be taken at face value; it's Ed asking if Oswald thinks he's incapable of functioning on his own, if Oswald thinks he needs to be mothered, observed, and directed. 

On occasion, Oswald's over-involvement in everything Ed does, his effort to be at the other man's side at all times— he supposes it could come off as smothering. 

"No," it doesn't sound half as aggressive as Oswald had hoped, "No, I don't."

Sometimes, Ed still grapples with the timid nature of his identity as it wars against his inherent adoration of violence, riddles, and the thrill of the chase. It seems like his brain works at twice the speed of his mouth and he's only able to convey half of what he wants to. Although it takes most of his patience and self control, Oswald tries to keep that in mind whenever Ed snaps at him. Ed doesn't always have the same luck with forethought that Oswald does, and it isn't fair to get angry with him. If he were anyone else, Oswald would toss them out of a moving car on the highway, or off of a boat in the middle of the night, watching them sink into the icy water of the bay without an ounce of remorse— but this is Ed. Perfect, beautiful, horrifying Ed with his wild eyes and blood dripping from his glasses, mouth split wide like a wound that goes down to the bone. Hopelessly, Oswald is reminded why he loves this man so much, and then, why he can never tell him. 

"I'll have a car brought down to get us," Oswald says, defeated in the face of his own weakness, "and you can continue—" he chances a peek at the hostage's face, considering if he's even still alive after losing the amount of blood that has soaked his shirt, "cutting his face off, or whatever." Almost instantly, Ed's expression lifts and breaks into something that, in the right light, could be love. Oswald feels his stomach flip once again. "But, Ed," he clicks his cane against the floor, an effort to ground himself in his usual position of power, "don't you dare wield a knife at me again. Understand?"

"Sure thing," Ed gives Oswald a thumbs up, expression similar to the one he'd worn the first time they'd killed together, so many months ago in his apartment, "Mister Penguin," and he laughs, because of course he does, so blissfully unaware or maybe all too knowing. Oswald doesn't want to know which.

For once, Oswald is willing to accept an answer in the form of nothingness. At the moment, blissful ignorance feels less painful. 

In the car, divider put up between the back seat and the drivers cabin, Oswald tries to scratch the blood flakes off of his tie. Beside him, Ed tries not to seem like the capacity of blood on his own clothes is absolutely killing him. His shirt is soaked, the entire front of him covered in a vest-shaped stain, a stark contrast against his white shirt. Next to his green pants, it all makes Ed look like some kind of demented Christmas decoration.

"I hate to say I told you so," Oswald says, leaving the ending open.

"You _love_ to." 

"You're right," he muses, "you always are."

"How much longer until we get home?" Ed tugs harshly on his tie, channeling all of his discomfort into the wet fabric.

 _Home_. The words tugs on Oswald's insides, every organ seeming to jump up and slam down, leaving him breathless. "Fifteen minutes, maybe," he estimates, considering the buildings outside of the windows. 

"Christ." The look on Ed's face is sheer misery, discomfort and disgust brewing as he tries to lift the wet fabric away from his skin. After another desperate look out the window, Ed's shaky hands start working the buttons of his shirt. Every move he makes brings with it the smell of copper and the sound of sick, wet and squelching; Oswald thinks he may  _be_ sick.

It's always an argument in Oswald's mind; Ed looks a special kind of handsome with blood on his hands, on his face, his lips, his skin. Although, despite this, the smell always manages to make Oswald feel ill. Hot blood, fresh out of the vein, it doesn't smell that bad. As it cools, though, the smell starts to work its way into the soft, pliable fibers of everything Oswald owns. Ed included. 

He doesn't own Ed, he reminds himself. Ed is not his, no matter how badly he wants Ed to be.

Ed may be apologizing as he drops the bloody shirt onto the carpeted floor of the car, on top of his jacket, as he unties his tie and drops it, too. When he pries the wet undershirt off of his chest, Oswald finally turns away. He knows he's blushing, he knows it, but he refuses to acknowledge it. 

He wiggles out of his own coat, all terrible mauve and black, fluffy neckline. Oswald pushes it out at Ed, over the pile of bloody clothes. The way he does it, with eyes averted and hands shaking, it all seems like a gesture to avoid indecency. 

This confuses Ed, because if Oswald is anything, it's indecent. Maybe not in the traditional sense of debauchery and bare skin, but there's something inherently indecent about murder as a preamble to a three course meal, always served with red wine.

The coat doesn't fit Ed as nicely as it does Oswald; the shoulders are too thin and the sleeves are too short. Still, it keeps Ed covered and warm, and he keeps it wrapped around him even after they walk into the manor. 

He excitedly questions Victor about the hideout, comparing hypotheses and outcomes— Oswald watches, fondly. 

It's not an image he ever thought he'd be able to see; Ed in a borrowed coat, looking so perfectly like a part of the house that it makes the word  _home_ suddenly make perfect sense. There's a warmth in the pit of Oswald's stomach, like he's had his first sip of tea on a winter morning; he knows this is Ed's doing. Every inch of it, from the choked up feeling in his throat, to the tense muscles around his heart, practically squeezing until he feels like he may die— it's all Ed.

Everything comes back to Ed, it seems. Oswald hates that; he wishes he could control it, could put all those sweet feelings in a box and save it beneath his bed, for when everything goes awry. 

Because it will. It always does. 

"We are better off unencumbered," but are they, really? Oswald knows, at the core of himself, he's stronger with someone at his side. He knows that he can't fill that void with alcohol or subservient underlings— Oswald knows he's strongest with an ally to share the head of the table with. God, he wants that to be Ed.

He wants Ed on the arm of his chair, he wants Ed helping him in the kitchen, he wants Ed in hand-picked suits with matching ties, in vintage dressing robes, in neon green with the finest glitter coming off of him in clouds. He wants Ed happy, healthy, and whole, with blood on his hands and hair in his face.

Oswald thinks he might cry, or just simply drop dead, so he scoops up Ed's ruined clothes and hides away in the laundry room. Tending to Ed's laundry, it's an act of intimacy that the other man will never see— the secrecy of it makes Oswald feel safe. He runs cold water, soaking the tie as he works spots of blood off of the jacket. 

The tie is a recent gift from Oswald, hand-dyed silk from a country he certainly can't pronounce properly. It came with a matching tie clip, which Ed only wears when they're out on mayoral business. 

As he uses a small hand brush to scrape blood away with soap and water, Oswald considers the figure that Ed cuts in a room of diplomats, politicians, socialites, and criminals alike. He scrubs harshly, stiff bristles moving over both his hand and the fabric— he hisses when the bristles break his skin. Blood for blood. 

"Olga," Oswald steals the woman from her trudge through the hallway, saving her the trouble of having to come into the living room and see her two least favorite people, "clean these, won't you?"

"And yours?" It isn't until Olga is gesturing at him with disgust that Oswald looks down and sees the spots of blood on his own waistcoat. 

"Thank you," he gives her the stained garment, thankful that his shirt is still unharmed. He likes this one, quite a lot. (It's one of Ed's favorites.)

Oswald takes his cane from the wall and hauls himself into the living room, surprised to only find Ed, sitting along on the couch, using the borrowed coat as a blanket. He's taken his shoes off so that he can tuck his legs beneath himself, long limbs folded together like a children's puzzle game just so he can fit. 

It does end up like this, sometimes; Ed wears himself out, running on high energy from the duration of a hostage situation, ending up asleep on the nearest surface. Oswald envies him, his ability to rest wherever, to feel safe as long as he's at home— it's much harder for Oswald, he never quite feels safe, instead just opts to drink himself into a false security. 

Sometimes, it works. 

He knows he should move Ed. He should wake Ed up and tell him to put on a clean shirt, dinner will be ready soon— but he can't. Oswald can't bring himself to stop staring, to stop looking at Ed in the way his mother would her series of porcelain angel figurines. Like he's something precious, fragile, not long for this world and surely not long for the next; he is born and he dies in this moment, Oswald knows that. He knows he won't get this opportunity again, not for a long time, at least. 

Sinking into the couch hurts Oswald's knee, but he situates himself just close enough to Ed that the sleeping man will have to follow the new slope of the cushions. He awkwardly slings a blanket over Ed's chest as the man slides down, face pressed into Oswald's neck. 

If he leans back, if he closes his eyes and takes his hands off of his cane and just  _sits_ , it almost feels real. It feels like it's love, not the emotional fallout after a long day of manic violence; it feels traditional, perfect, healthy. It feels like Oswald's mother wanted for him. 

As she looks down on him now, watching him savor even the smallest forms of contact, watching him look for substance where there isn't any, he images she weeps for him. He knows she would be more distraught to see him put his heart in Ed's lithe hands, to watch as he uses short nails to tear the outer muscle open and stick his fingertips into each pulmonary artery and vein, destroying the fragile structure with a smile. there will be nothing left, just Oswald, his father's mansion, and the remains of a heart, embedded with green glitter and a question mark painted in blood.

 _"Or maybe," she tells him, holding his small, chubby hand over his skinned knees, "you can try. You never know until you try, Oswald." Her fingers shakes as they chase tears off of his cheek, puffed out and covered in freckles, "Because, darling,_ love conquers all."

Oswald puts his arm over Ed's shoulders and threads a hand into the back of his hair. He faces the reality of it all head on; the smell of metal, the undertone of cedar wood that clings to Ed like a lost child, the way Ed's breath feels on his neck. He counts down from ten, steadies his heart and decides to take what he can get.

It's those little pleasures. 

"Did I miss dinner?" Ed asks, voice bleary and innocent as he reaches out and takes a hold of Oswald's shirt. The fingers that bunch the expensive fabric feel like they're ice, burning so hot that everything beneath their touch freezes solid; unfeeling and oversensitive. 

"No," the hand in Ed's hair tenses and twitches, just as unstable as Oswald's voice, "go back to sleep, Ed. I'll wake you up."

"Thanks," he tucks his head back under Oswald's jawline, fitting perfectly like a bird in a nest, like eggs beneath their mother's plumage, like a fire in the middle of a national forest. It burns so badly that Oswald imagines Ed's hair singeing into his skin, melting Oswald's throat down to the bone and going so hot that even the bones turn to cinders.

His mother never talked about the pain of love, the all-encompassing suffering that comes with the decision that the heart makes. She only talked about the beauty of it, the way it turns the mind into a cinema, the way it turns words into difficult feats, the way it eclipses vision— love makes exceptions to every rule. 

The knife Ed had held up at Oswald sits on the table, next to Ed's glasses and phone, all embellished with matching shades of gold and green. Oswald knows he could do away with the knife, knows he could throw it out or have Victor dispose of it in whichever creative way he feels inclined to. 

He decides, against his better judgement, not to.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading
> 
> this was fun to write; i'm a sucker for purple prose and extreme imagery. oswald "one true love" "wears a three piece suit to any and all occasions" cobblepot gives me a chance to mess around with that.
> 
> talk to me on tumblr, i'm [ mayor-crumblepot! ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


End file.
